


Surprises

by sardonicsmiley



Series: Parallels 'Verse [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Earth, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley
Summary: How John and Rodney met, Pegasus-free version.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More Long Way Home follow-up fic! Because they're my favorite things to write! So, [amnesiajane](http://amnesiajane.livejournal.com/) said she wanted to know how the John and Rodney that stayed on Earth, with adopted kids no less, happened. Possibly I took you too literally when you said you wanted to now how it happened. Because what we have here is the very beginning.

Rodney McKay meets John Sheppard when he's twenty-one. In the supermarket. Specifically, in the produce section of Big Malcolm's Grocery. Rodney is in a state of nearly complete panic, because Jeannie's flight is going to be arriving in under three hours and he's nowhere near ready for her visit, and he's frozen, staring at his arch nemesis, cradled as it is between the apples and the pears. 

Jeannie loves oranges. Loves them. Rodney stares at them for another brief moment, contemplating the possible repercussions of grabbing them and hoping for the best, when he realizes that there's a man standing not two feet away, poking through the apples. 

Rodney pulls one of the produce bags off its spool, shoves it in the man's direction, and blurts, "Can you bag me up three of these? I'm deathly allergic to them but my sister loves them and she's flying in from Maine to make sure I'm not completely ruining her chances at being the smartest one in the family and I promised her I'd have some at the house without considering the logistics of how I was supposed to actually procure them." 

The guy looks at him, blinks, and then grins. He's got a nice grin. Very white. Tanned skin and short, dark hair, shaved up into a high and tight. The guy takes the bag out of Rodney's hand, leaning over to inspect a few oranges before dropping three into the bag and handing it back. He says, "I don't work here." 

Rodney gives him an impatient look, "I know. You're not wearing the uniform. Anyway. Thank you from saving me from citrus-y death." 

Rodney tosses the oranges in the cart beside the eggs and tofu-sausage that Jeannie had insisted he provide. He still has to clean up his apartment and pray that Jeannie's cat allergies don't act up because he couldn't get anyone to watch Milton for a few days. 

The guy says, leaning one hip against the fruit stand while Rodney pulls his cart away, "So if you want to find me later, I won't be here." 

Rodney pauses. The guy is watching him, dark eyes intent, and Rodney watches him back for a moment. Staying to find out how this plays out suddenly seems like an excellent idea. Rodney steps away from the cart, extends his hand to shake, "Rodney McKay. So where can I find you?" 

The guy has a firm grip, and he holds on a beat too long. Rodney's stomach does a completely embarrassing flopping thing, and he can feel the flush climbing up the back of his neck. It doesn't improve when the guy shrugs, "John Sheppard. I'm staying at the Holiday Inn. Hadn't decided until recently that I wanted to stick around here." 

Rodney is saying before he even thinks about it, "You're staying at a motel? Oh, God. Do you even know what lives in those beds? Not to mention the odds of being robbed or murdered by a vagrant. Have you no sense of self preservation?"

John shrugs again, he seems to be making a habit of it. Rodney would point out that it's bad for his posture, but John's _also_ smiling, and saying, "But they do have an indoor pool." 

Rodney opens his mouth, "But the chlorine!" He takes a deep breath to go into just what, exactly, the concentrations used in pool water can do to you, and then realizes that he's on a time table here. Instead he turns back to the cart, tearing off the corner of his shopping list and grabbing the pencil he keeps behind his ear—never know when brilliance will strike—and scrawls out his address.

John looks bemused when Rodney shoves it into his hands, but his expression brightens when Rodney says, "We're having dinner at five. Don't argue. You can bring wine. And...yes, you can bring some flowers for Jeannie. I'm not going to have time to pick any up. Carnations! Yellow!" 

Rodney leaves John staring down at his address, and pushes his cart towards the check out aisles. 

* * *

By the time five rolls around Rodney has completely forgotten about the conversation in the supermarket. Jeannie is fussing over Rodney's text books and badgering him about why he isn't taking more classes when the downstairs buzzer goes off. Rodney presses the intercom with his elbow, stirring the spaghetti and trying to yank his quantum physics theorem out of Jeannie's hands at the same time. He snaps, "Yes, who is it?" 

There's a brief pause on the other end, and then, "Uh, John." Rodney curses, shoves the spoon in Jeannie's general direction and heads for the front door. Sometimes he wonders what made him decide to lease this tiny apartment on the third floor of this crappy old building. And then he remembers how much money he makes. 

John is leaning against the doorframe when Rodney throws the door open. He looks pretty much exactly the same as he had earlier, with the added bonus of holding both a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers. Rodney beams at him, ushers him in, and plucks the wine from his hands. "Oh, excellent, come on. She's probably burning the water." 

Rodney pounds back up the stairs, louder than he strictly needs to be, but his downstairs neighbors play their music ridiculously loudly at all hours of the day and night and he figures it's only fair to repay some of the noise terrorism they dabble in. John sounds amused when he says, "You don't really have low gears, do you?" 

Rodney flashes him an incredulous look, and then they're back in his apartment. He yanks the spoon out of Jeannie's hand—the noodles are already boiling all over the stove—sets the wine to the side and gestures between his two guests, "Jeannie, this is John. John, my sister Jeannie. Give her the flowers." 

John does, along with a smile that makes Rodney's stomach ache. Then Jeannie smacks Rodney in the head with the carnations, her voice dripping aggravation, "Why didn't you tell me you were seeing someone? I've been trying to figure out how to set you up with Ryan for ages and look!" She makes a hourglass gesture at John, which Rodney is pretty sure doesn't actually apply to men. 

Rodney rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to point out that she's making wild assumptions with absolutely no foundation in anything resembling fact, but doesn't get the chance. John slides up behind him, arms bracketing Rodney in as he turns down the heat on the stove. John's voice is a rumble that sends chills down Rodney's spine, "We wanted it to be a surprise." 

John shifts just a little closer, and Rodney turns his head, blinks at John over his shoulder. The man is still smiling, and he leans forward, presses a soft, absent, kiss to the corner of Rodney's mouth. "Surprised?" 

Rodney blinks, and then drops the spoon, reaching up to grab John's collar and pull him in for a proper kiss. John's mouth is unyielding for all of a second, and then he's relaxing with a soft sigh. Rodney finds himself making out with a guy he met in the supermarket in front of his baby sister while his spaghetti noodles go all to shit and pulls back enough to say, "We catch on quick." 

John is staring at his mouth, and Jeannie sounds like she's trying not to laugh when she says, "Maybe you should get a room?"

* * *


	2. Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weekend mornings at the Sheppard-McKay household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So, I depressed myself. Unbelievably. My solution? Happy fic about how the John and Rodney that were married and stayed on Earth in their part of Long Way Home spend their Sunday mornings. With their adopted kids. Wee! Fluff! I can write it, it just has to be in AU form. And why is their adopted son named Junior, you ask? Because there are a lot of Johns in the world and John Sheppard thought he was being funny.

Rodney wakes up to sun in his eyes, bands of warmth creeping in through the blinds and falling across his skin. He feels almost too warm, with the sun and the blankets and all the skin and heat that is John sprawled on top of him. John had started using him as a body pillow roughly seven hours after they actually made it to a bed for the first time, and twenty years later neither of them had bothered to break the habit.

Rodney shifts. He's still got the headache that had been drilling away at his temples the night before, a product of too many hours spent working on problems for a company that demands more and more from him every year. He winces, raises a hand to rub at his eyes and John makes a sleepy protesting sound while making a stunningly successful effort to wrap himself more completely around Rodney.

John's got his face mashed up against Rodney's chest, one hairy leg thrown over Rodney's thighs. The man's right arm has to be asleep, curled up under Rodney's shoulder, elbow pointy under Rodney's neck, left arm thrown over Rodney's chest, fingers curling against his side. John claims that he doesn't want the cats in the bedroom because he doesn't like them shedding on the sheets but Rodney has no doubt that the protest has more to do with John not wanting to have to share cuddling space.

Rodney shifts again just to listen to John mumble nonsensically. His headache doesn't seem as bad as it had a few moments ago. Rodney runs absent fingers back through John's hair, eternally messy and looking like it needs a haircut. John has been a little weird about his hair for a while, since he noticed the silver strands starting to come in at his temples, around the same time he stopped letting his stubble grow for more than a day.

Rodney is willing to give John some time to get used to the change. His own hair has been stubbornly falling out for five years, and God knows they'd all had to put up with him freaking out over that at first. And, okay, if he's brutally honest with himself, it still bugs him every now and then.

Right now isn't one of those times. John stretches, back arching while his skin rubs up against Rodney's. John always wakes up faster than him, so it isn't really a surprise when a half-second later John is pulling his arm out from beneath Rodney's body and pushing himself up on one elbow. John blinks down at him sleepily, rasps out, "Morning."

Rodney nods and winces again because it brings his headache back. John's pleasantly soft expression fades immediately, concern taking its place as his fingers dance up the tight tendons in Rodney's neck. John sighs, "I'm going to have to have a talk with your boss about sending you home broken."

Rodney rolls his eyes, bats John's hand away only to have it replaced a moment later by John's warm mouth. John kisses and sucks at his throat, tongue tracing patterns on Rodney's skin, teeth a ghost of pressure that has Rodney ignoring the pain and tilting his head back.

John rumbles and at any other time Rodney would tell him not to be so smug, but John's hand is sliding promisingly down his chest. Arguing would probably work against his better interest in this instance. He settles for letting out an appreciative hiss and feels John grin against his neck.

John's hand is warm and familiar, fingertips sliding below the waistband of Rodney's boxers. John still feels the need to crow a little in victory every time he gets a hand down Rodney's pants and now is no different. Rodney rolls his eyes again at the gloating.

John's fingertips leave scorching trails against Rodney's skin. John has apparently decided to be an infuriatingly teasing bastard now and Rodney shifts, opens his mouth to demand that John get on with things. John takes the opportunity to abandon his attention to Rodney's neck, shifting up and kissing him hungry and sloppy while finally wrapping his hand around Rodney's cock.

Morning breath is not sexy. Not even from John. Rodney knows this, but he's still letting his mouth fall open, sucking on John's bottom lip and smirking at the shuddery little breath that escapes John. John's skin is so warm, his body relaxed from sleeping soundly all night. Rodney gets an arm under him, wrapped up around John's back.

John's hand around his cock goes momentarily still and slack when Rodney trails his fingers down John's spine, counting vertebrae in his head as he goes. Rodney nips at the corner of John's mouth to get his attention and John reciprocates with a slow, lazy stroke that's more of a tease than anything else.

John's boxers are suspiciously loose around his hips when Rodney reaches them, and he frowns, shifting up on his elbows to look. John mumbles something in protest, sliding to the side at Rodney's movement. Rodney stares across at him, points to John's underwear and says, "You have your own."

Rodney isn't sure where John's odd fascination with wearing his clothes came from. John had stolen a pair of sweat pants from him the day they met, after Jeannie claimed to accidentally have spilt wine all over his jeans. From then on there had been no going back, Rodney finding articles of clothing going missing every time John came over and suddenly reappearing when John moved in.

John flushes now, grinning even as the tips of his ears stain pink. John wiggles his hips, raising his eyebrows, "Well, you gonna take 'em back?"

Rodney rolls his eyes and sighs huffily but it's only misdirection to allow him to flip sideways and settle over John before he can squirm away. He settles on his elbows, looks down at John and says, "They have cooties now," before dropping a kiss to the tip of John's nose.

John sniggers, his thighs falling apart as he leans up off the bed to kiss Rodney again. John pulls away when he shoves both hands down the back of Rodney's boxers, grabbing his ass and squeezing. Rodney bites his bottom lip, strangling the moan in his throat as best he can.

John is nothing but smug, pushing his hips up as he pulls Rodney down, "I think it's safe to say that you've been thoroughly contaminated with my cooties for years. You must have developed some kind of immunity to them by now."

Rodney nods, "Repeated exposure no doubt built up my tolerance." The last words come out in a huff, and he buries his face against the side of John's neck, trying to muffle the grunts and moans against John's skin. John's breath is a warm rasp against his ear and Rodney grinds down against him, need and want and desire all swimming through his blood.

"You trying to come in your shorts?" John sounds fascinated with the idea and Rodney opens his mouth to point out all of the reasons it's a really, really good idea right now. The words all come out in a rush, consonants and vowels that he can't make any sense of as he feels himself come undone.

John's voice is deep, rough, right in Rodney's ear, "Jesus." Rodney feels heavy and so good and lets John roll them. He thinks he should probably be lending a hand, but all he can manage to do is get one hand on John's back, rubbing circles that are probably more 'comfort' than 'sexually gratifying'. Then again, maybe John doesn't need the help.

John bites at Rodney's throat when he comes, thrusting against Rodney's thigh, fingers digging into Rodney's arms.

Rodney is dopily pleased to note that they've pretty much ended up back in the same position they woke up in. Technically he supposes they didn't really have to move at all, but he can't complain with the results of their activity.

John stretches up after a moment, sliding his hands up to cup the back of Rodney's head and kissing him hard. When John pulls back they're both panting and Rodney's body is trying very hard to convince him that there's really no reason at all for him to ever get out of bed again.

John ruins that plan by crawling across Rodney out of the bed, taking half the sheets with him and calling over his shoulder, "Dibs on the shower."

Just for that, Rodney decides to drink all of the first pot of coffee by himself.

* * *

It's getting to be too warm for robes in the morning but Rodney is in desperate need of caffeine and he's not getting dressed while all sticky. John's showers take roughly the same amount of time it took Homer to recount the Odyssey over a fire and so Rodney pulls on his robe and heads for the kitchen.

The kitchen is a war zone. Apparently John and the kids had pizza while Rodney was holed up trying to figure out if it would be easier to come up with a brand new form of mathematics or just killing everyone he worked for so they'd stop giving him such impossible projects. Pizza in their house is never anything but an adventure. Mostly, because John insists on cooking it himself.

Rodney stares at the carnage around the kitchen. A can of tomato sauce bleed to death all over the counter. The murder weapons used to carve up hapless peppers and onions are still spread across the table. There is what Rodney can only pray is a sausage casing hanging over the sink faucet. Flour is everywhere, little white handprints all over the fridge and the microwave and—bizarrely—the overhead fan blades.

Rodney snorts, shakes his head and reaches over to turn the coffee maker on. In all the wanton destruction it alone is untouched and starts percolating happily while Rodney steps over a melted spatula to the cup cabinet. He leans against the counter, watching the coffee drip into the pot and supposes that he should consider himself lucky that at least the house didn't burn down.

The first cup is like a gift from above. Rodney drains it in two long swallows, ignoring the burn on the roof of his mouth and tongue. The coffee is bitter, dark, scalding hot and utterly perfect. It hits his stomach like liquid life, and Rodney cracks his knuckles before pouring another cup and getting down to business. If he washes the dishes by hand just so that he can use hot water then John asked for it.

* * *

Rodney is just disposing of the hopefully-a-sausage-casing when the house starts shaking. He doesn't turn to look, just yells, "No running in the house!" and is gratified a second later by the sound of someone trying to stop too quickly and landing on their ass. Rodney turns to face the door of the kitchen, arms crossed and smirking.

Junior comes through the door walking, fair skin stained beet red, blond hair sticking up in roughly twenty thousand directions. The boy freezes in the middle of a step, looking around the kitchen like he's never seen it before, mouth falling open and then snapping shut. The boy is still looking helplessly around the room when Rodney swallows a mouthful of coffee and says, "In a hurry?"

Junior looks up at him and tries on one of the shit-eating grins that he's attempting to steal from John, "I didn't think you'd be up this early." Rodney just stares at him and after a moment the boy lets the smile go, walks forward and throws his arms around Rodney, pleading, "I tried to tell them not to do it! You know how they are! There's no talking to dad when he's like that!"

Rodney rolls his eyes but can't keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up. He reaches up with his non-coffee occupied hand and ruffles Junior's hair, prompting the boy to blink up at him with hope in his gaze. Rodney says, "Shall I assume it was you who kept the coffee from coming to any harm?"

Junior nods, stepping away and heading towards the fridge with a determined look on his face. Rodney catches the door, pushing it back closed and sticking his tongue out at Junior when the boy pouts up at him. "I'm pretty sure I'm owed some actual breakfast this morning. Go wake your sister."

Junior makes a face but doesn't protest, and Rodney reaches over to turn the hot water on full blast again. He'll give it five minutes. If John isn't dressed and in the kitchen by then Rodney will just have to go get him.

* * *

John flashes Rodney a dirty look when he steps into the kitchen four minutes later. His hair is still soaking wet, plastered against his skull and Rodney doesn't try not to laugh at him. John steps up to him, hands gripping the counter on either side of Rodney's hips and glares at him. Rodney is still laughing when John finally cracks a smile and kisses him.

John's hand is getting rather more involved with Rodney's belt than it should be when they're interrupted by, "Ew! You have a bedroom for that, you know."

John twists his head to look in the doorway, grinning at Emily and Junior behind her. While the rest of them look awake Emily still looks like she belongs in bed. Her red hair is a tangled mess and she's somehow managed to snag one of the afghans from the living room on her way to the kitchen. The blanket is slung over her shoulders like a cloak and she throws herself into her chair.

John waits until her back is turned to lean back in a kiss Rodney with far too many sound effects for it to be anything but hilarious. Rodney ends up grinning helplessly against John's mouth, listening to their children bicker back and forth about who has to set the table.

When John finally pulls back, his mouth red and his eyes shining, Rodney says, "I was thinking pancakes."

* * *


	3. PWP Snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, John thinks Rodney is gone without a trace.

Their yard is acre and a half. John had wanted more, Rodney had wanted less, and they'd compromised in the middle. John's argument had been that the kids needed space to run around and play, Rodney's had been that he was allergic to pretty much everything that grew on God's green earth, and he'd like to continue breathing as much as possible.

At first John had assumed that the Rodney was exaggerating his allergies to get out of mowing the grass. The one summer that John spent hobbling around on a broken leg had pretty much proved that Rodney was telling the truth.

Rodney had mowed the lawn faithfully—because the whole point of having it was so the kids could play in it and they couldn't very well play if the yard was doing an impression of the rain forest—but John had been left feeling guilty and useless. Every time Rodney came in he'd been a mess of red eyes, congested sinuses, and wracking coughs. John had accepted lawn mowing duties without complaint after that.

The lawn mower starts up easily, a sure sign that Rodney has been out messing with it. John grins, listening to it rumble, already starting to sweat. It's far too warm for late spring, especially this early in the morning, and John scowls at the sun, before looking across his lawn.

Rodney offers every year to get a riding mower, and John keeps telling him no. John has been mowing the lawn since he was ten years old, and it just feels right to use a push mower. He likes the vibration of the engine up his arms. He takes maybe more satisfaction than he should from being able to look at the finished product and knowing that he did it.

John also doesn't feel as guilty drinking a beer or two after pushing the mower for an hour. He figures it's a fair trade.

The sun is beating down hard on his shoulders by the time he's done, hot and relentless. John's shirt is lying on the back porch, abandoned when it had started clinging to his back and shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of the sun in his bones. There are pieces of sad, defeated grass stuck all over him, and John picks at them as he puts the lawn mower back in the shed.

Beer sounds good right about now, ice cold, maybe with a left over piece of pizza. John kicks his shoes off outside the house, his socks green around his ankles, padding across the kitchen tile and calling for Rodney. He pauses with the fridge door open, enjoying the rush of cool air across his overheated skin, listening for sounds of life.

There's nothing.

John frowns, wiping across his brow, feeling a drop of sweat sliding down his spine. He abandons the fridge, and the beer, padding across the floor, hollering up the stairs for Rodney. No response. John feels something like panic in his chest, remembering waking up to men in black with guns, Rodney being pulled out of his bed while John struggled and fought.

John's heart is racing, he takes the stairs three at a time, throwing open all the doors, not finding Rodney and racing back downstairs. No sign of Rodney anywhere in the house and John slides across the tile to the garage door, half sure that there's going to be a white van speeding away, Rodney trussed up in the back.

Rodney is slamming the hood of John's hotrod closed, patting the car. John freezes, his heart thundering, bracing himself up against the doorframe. Rodney's hair is a mess, smears of grease across his forehead and cheek, down his arms and completely covering his fingers. Rodney's shirt is sticking to his skin, and John doesn't know how he's handling the jeans and boots.

John makes a sound, laughter almost, all hot relief, and Rodney turns to look at him. Rodney beams up at him, reaching for the rag laid out by his tools, wiping at the grease on his hands, saying, "Oh, hey, I just thought I'd do some work on the Mustang while I didn't have anyone under my feet. How's the yard?"

"Good," John steps down into the garage, up to Rodney. Rodney's hair is damp, curling up the way it does when it's wet, and John rubs his thumb across his brow. Rodney leans into the touch and John wraps his hand around the back of the other man's neck, leans in and kisses him hard, just to reassure himself that Rodney is here, that everything is fine.

The force of the kiss coaxes a surprised sound from Rodney. It doesn't sound like protest. John pushes at him, until the back of Rodney's thighs hit the hood of the Mustang. Rodney slides an arm around John's back, flattens his fingers across John's skin, dragging the knuckles of his other hand up John's side.

John only pulls away when he runs out of breath, and even then he doesn't go far, his forehead pressed up against Rodney's, their noses bumping. Rodney licks his lips, John can almost feel it, sounding irritated when he says, "You realize you're all covered in grass, right? I'm probably getting hay fever right now."

John ignores the complaint to kiss him again, pressing himself as tight against Rodney as he can, feeling it when Rodney goes pliant against him. Rodney sighs against his mouth, winding his fingers into John's waistband, tugging his hips forward.

The sweet rub of pressure has John hissing, his cock throbbing. He grinds against Rodney again, nipping at his mouth before managing to make himself ask, "Where are the kids?" Because they hadn't been in the house, either.

Rodney hums, sliding one hand down to squeeze John's ass, leaving the other where it is, his thumb rubbing back and forth over John's hip. Rodney sounds distracted, "Your brother came by and took them to the zoo."

That makes John pause, running the words back through his head just to make sure he heard properly. He still doesn't quite believe it, so he says, "Dave took the kids to the zoo?" It still doesn't make any sense.

Rodney shrugs, dropping a quick kiss on John's lips before leaving a trail across his jaw. John wishes, absently, that he'd shaved in the shower, still trying to get used to the way his beard has decided it wants to be mostly white now. Rodney doesn't appear to mind, voice vibrating against John's throat, "I may have mentioned that Jeannie was looking for someone that was good with kids to settle down with, and that Junior and Emily wrote her an e-mail every week, and that they'd be sure to mention how much fun they had with their uncle."

John feels himself smile, snorting, "You may have, huh?"

Rodney presses a matching smile against John's neck, nipping at his skin, soothing with his tongue and making a soft, needy sound. "It certainly looks that way. They won't be back for hours." There's nothing but promise in Rodney's voice, in the way that he's easing the tips of his fingers below John's waistband.

Possibilities stream through John's head, straight down his spine to his dick. He bites back a groan, grabbing at Rodney, pulling him back into a kiss. He pushes and Rodney's weight settles back onto the hood of the Mustang just for a moment and John freezes, one idea jumping up and down and demanding attention.

John pulls back, looks Rodney up and down and bites his lip in anticipation. Rodney looks back at him, squints at his expression, looks over his shoulder, and then raises a hand, shaking his head, "No. No way, don't even think about it, John."

"I'm already thinking about it." John can feel himself grinning, crossing to Rodney's tool chest and rifling through the drawers. He knows he left—ah, there. John grabs the lube victoriously, turns back to find Rodney with his arms crossed, and momentarily loses his train of thought. Rodney's fingers are strong, grease under his fingernails, his shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest, to his arms. John's mouth goes dry. "God, Rodney."

For a half second Rodney's expression softens, he licks his lips, but then he's rallying, "We can't. There are kids around here. They could be scarred for life. And—and what about the joggers? They could be by at any time."

John shrugs, stepping back into Rodney's space, tilting Rodney's head back and nuzzling against his neck, knowing all the places to bite and suck to make the other man shudder. John learned all of Rodney's buttons years ago, which had made winning arguments a hell of a lot easier. Rodney whines up to the ceiling, sounding breathy, "At least put the garage door down. Someone will hear."

"Not if you're quiet," John nips at Rodney's skin, rumbles the words into his ear and feels him shiver. John slides his hands down Rodney's back, into the back pockets of Rodney's jeans. They feel heavy, damp with sweat and grease. It makes John squeeze, grinding into Rodney. "C'mon, Rodney, please?"

For a moment Rodney is quiet, but that never lasts.

"Okay, fine, but—" John stops listening, shifting to kiss Rodney hard and then taking a half step back. Rodney makes a surprised sound, but John is already pulling at his hips, twisting him around and then sliding a hand beneath his shirt.

Rodney's back is slick with sweat, hot, solid. John groans, running his hand up the line of Rodney's spine, pushing him down. John can feel Rodney's breath hitch when he leans forward, bracing his hands on the hood of the Mustang, looking over his shoulder at John. There's a smear of grease on Rodney's cheek, right below his eye. John wants to lick it, pressing himself up against Rodney's back, grunting.

Rodney snorts, "You're utterly ridiculous," and John would protest but right now all he wants to do is fuck Rodney across the hood of his car, the sooner the better. John kisses and sucks at the back of Rodney's neck, sliding his hand around to Rodney's chest, dragging his thumb across one of Rodney's nipples, feeling his rough indrawn breath.

When Rodney tilts his hips back John curses, his palm sliding down Rodney's stomach, fingers fumbling with his button and zipper. John manages to wrestle Rodney's jeans and boxers to somewhere down around his knees before losing all patience with the effort. He takes a moment to look down at his handiwork, Rodney, leaning over the hood of his muscle car, bare assed and looking over his shoulder.

John curses again, yanking at his own fly, and then getting distracted by Rodney's pointed looks at the lube. John reaches for it automatically, slicking up his fingers, pressing as much of his body up against Rodney's side as he can manage and reaching for the sweet curve of his ass.

Rodney groans, low and loud, with the press of just one of John's fingers into him. John looks automatically out to the road, but there are no wandering neighbors looking horrified. At this point John isn't sure he would care even if there was. He needs this, right now, pants into Rodney's ear, "I need—I can't—"

Rodney nods, jerky, "Yeah, yeah, okay," and that's enough. John buries his face against the other man's broad shoulder, working another finger into him, quick and desperate. As far as prep goes it's minimal at best, but Rodney said 'yeah' and John needs to be in him.

When John slides his fingers free Rodney grunts, his hips tilting back. John fumbles with his zipper again, managing to get his shorts mostly off his hips before reaching for the lube again, slicking himself up and then grabbing for Rodney's hips, holding on in a futile attempt to steady himself. Rodney is hot and tight around him, and John pushes in, hearing the whine in the back of his own throat, powerless to stop it.

Rodney cries out, something wordless and thick, his head dropping, the muscles in his arms jumping. John holds his breath, just revels in this for a long moment. Then he's thrusting forward, pushing and shoving at Rodney's broad back until he gets the idea and slides down to his elbows, down flat on his chest when John thrusts into him again.

The angle is weird and hard on John's knees, but he can't be assed to care. Rodney is so tight, perfect, here and safe and dirty from working on John's car. John keeps a hand braced in the middle of Rodney's back, yanking and pulling at Rodney's shirt until he can get to skin, snapping his hips hard and fast, finesse nothing but a forgotten concern.

Rodney's hands keep slipping across the hood, slick with sweat. He's making the best sounds, grunting, more desperate moans when John bends his knees and finally finds the leverage he was looking for. The car is shifting back and forth, springs groaning, and John curls over Rodney, thrusting over and over, as hard as he can, needing this in a way he can't articulate.

Rodney is still managing to hold his hips up off the hood, and John slides a hand around the curve of his hip. John's hand is still slick with lube, and Rodney makes a desperate sound when John grips his cock, jacking him in a sloppy counter-rhythm to John's thrusts.

John isn't aware that he's babbling, "—don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me—" until Rodney manages to get a hand back, grabbing at John's hip and squeezing. Rodney's fingers are clever, strong, comfortingly familiar.

They've been together nearly half John's life now, and he doesn't know what he'd do without Rodney, doesn't even want to think about it. He'd found Rodney when his life was empty and going to hell, and the other man had been his whole world since then. John knows it might not be entirely healthy. He doesn't care.

Rodney is gasping, words tumbling broken off his lips from John's thrusts, "—I'm here, I'm right here—" and he is. John shouts, pushing hard into him, his orgasm burning through him. He's dimly aware that Rodney's cock is still hard in his hand, but can't seem to make his fingers work.

Rodney's neck is right there, and John bites at his skin, flushed red from heat and exertion. Rodney is squirming around, and John grunts, making his arm work, touching Rodney the way he knows Rodney likes until the other man comes all over his fist, messy and hot.

Rodney groans, low and long, going limp across the hood of the car. John collapses on top of him, feeling Rodney's heart beat, Rodney's heat soaking up into him. Outside the sun is shining, a car driving past while John watches.

John isn't sure how long they stay that way before Rodney pushes up off the hood, muscles in his back and shoulders working. John barely has time to convince his knees to work, sliding out of Rodney and hissing at the loss, clinging to the other man's back while Rodney bats at his hands.

Eventually John relents, shifts back, gives Rodney enough space to turn. Rodney's chest is red from being pressed against the hood, and he pulls up his pants with the slightest wince in the corners of his eyes. John feels a flash of guilt, "Shit, I'm sorry."

Rodney pauses, his jeans still loose around his hips, blinking up at John. His eyes are still a little dazed, his mouth red and kiss swollen. Rodney frowns, then reaches out, grabbing at John's arms and pulling him close, kissing him, soft now.

Rodney says, his lips brushing John's, "It's okay. I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

John squeezes his eyes shut, nodding desperately, burying his face against the side of Rodney's neck. He's warm and solid and here. John wraps his arms around Rodney, holds him, and allows himself to believe. Rodney pokes him in the shoulder, "Now, I am going to go shower. Coming?"

John considers, "Probably."

* * *


End file.
